Nasal Massage ~repack~

Madame Vos, his neighbor from the floor below, was eighty years old and possessed a will of iron encased in a frame of brittle glass. She had barged in twenty minutes ago with a tin of homemade biscotti and a head cold that sounded like a dying tuba.

"You have talented hands, Elias," she said, her voice no longer a rasp, but merely a rough timber. "I believe I shall keep the reservation for tomorrow." nasal massage

She crunched into the biscotti, the sound crisp and clear in the restored silence of the apartment. Madame Vos, his neighbor from the floor below,

"It is not allergies," she declared, though she sniffed loudly, undoing her declaration. "It is the weight of the world. It settles in the sinuses." "I believe I shall keep the reservation for tomorrow

"I’m glad," he said, standing up.